A Brush With The Other Side
by Santai
Summary: Watson has been far too busy to see his old friend for a while. Since he moved out, in fact. He never expected the profound effect his absence would have on the eccentric detective....
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys. This isn't going to be a one-shot but it may be a while between chapters as I have very little actual plotline right now. But anyway, this was written originally as just an image, from a song and written on request of Kaizoku-Taii (read her stuff! Tis good!!). But please let me know what you think! (I don't own Sherlock Holmes. ****) loves! xx**

The cloth bag was lifted from his head as Watson was guided through yet another door. Before he had time to turn to see his captors, the door had shut. He gazed around the room for a moment, taking in everything he could about it, trying to work out where he was. But the room was bare, save for a single central table with a single chair pulled up to it, strewn with wrinkled paper. The only door was the one he had been pushed through and the only window was blocked by a figure facing away from him, his hands clasped behind his back. Watson frowned as he recognised the second man.

"Holmes," Watson breathed, partly relieved, and partly confused to see his friend here.

"Yes, Watson," Holmes replied pleasantly as he continued to look out of the window.

"Where are we?" he asked, taking a step closer.

Holmes turned, a proud smile on his face, "Do you like it? We are currently standing in the new headquarters of the criminal underworld."

Watson frowned, "Why are we here?"

"You, my friend, are here because I felt it had been too long since we last spoke."

"Holmes, I was attacked and blindfolded before I was dragged here."

Holmes frowned, "They attacked you? Well that was directly against my orders," he muttered to himself, "I trust you're not hurt?" he cast a glance over the doctor.

Watson stared incredulously at him, "I'm fine," he said quietly, "What are you doing here, Holmes?"

"Ah!" Holmes stepped away from the window and gestured at the table, "Many things, Watson. For example, last night I organised the theft of a stunning Bailey sculpture delivered this morning to the docks for loading onto a ship destined for the Americas. It was wonderfully satisfying. Oh and tomorrow, a vault load of gold is boarding a train to Liverpool, where it will also be packed onto a ship. Its destination is something only myself and the ship's crew have knowledge of."

The papers rustled as Watson glanced through them, peering at Holmes' scrawled writing, "There are more. Why have you done this?"

"Why you ask," Holmes murmured to himself, as though never having quite thought about it, "Well, shortly after you left me to my own devices, I came to a startling revelation. The thought occurred to me that my life appears to have been nothing more than waiting for a criminal to commit a crime so ingenious that it would keep me entertained for at least a day. But you know as well as I that they are not all too common. So, after a while of wallowing in my own self-pity, as you call it, I strived to see if I could create the perfect crime for myself."

"The perfect crime?" Watson's voice was quiet as he repeated the words, lowering the piece of paper he had picked up, "What did you do?"

"It was printed in the paper, last Thursday, if my memory serves me correctly,"

"The disappearance of the baker from Kings Way? That was you?"

"Well, indirectly yes. I have a number of contacts that were more than willing to assist me. While the abduction was taking place, I was sat quietly in Baker Street, reading the paper and waiting for news."

"What have you done to him?"

Holmes chuckled, "Nothing at all. Presently he is in Belgium, continuing his profession. I could organise a meeting if you are truly worried for him."

"Pray tell, Holmes, why did you abduct a man and send him to Belgium?!"

Holmes shrugged, "It was merely to prove to myself that I could," he smiled, his eyes glinting, "The intricacies that went into the planning were simply extraordinary. They had me up for no less than thirty hours. If the truth be told, I never planned to carry out the deed. But by the time I had finished, I felt as though I had theorised something revolutionary. I felt obligated to put it into practice. I had to test the practical issues that could arise in the completion of the theoretical plan. It seems that I have quite a knack for the art of crime and the young baker was sailing to Belgium with no one so much as blinking."

"So, now you've committed the perfect crime why all these others?" Watson grabbed one of the papers screwed it up in his fist.

Holmes raised an eyebrow at the anger in his voice, but chose to ignore it, "As I sat working through the details, something occurred to me. It appears I take much more pleasure from smashing the glass to picking up the pieces..."

Watson scoffed, "In the three short weeks I have gone, you have sunk a long way. The once great Sherlock Holmes reduced to petty theft?!"

"Reduced?!" Holmes yelled excitedly, as he rushed to the table and leant heavily on it, watching Watson, "My mind has never been so alive, Watson. This society protects its possessions with an intriguing amount of passion. From my renewed point of view it is almost an invitation to challenge them," he picked up one of the plans and studied it, "Why should I waste my not inconsiderable experience waiting for some desperate fool to present their pitifully simple case?" he muttered angrily.

Watson slammed a fist on the table, making Holmes flinch, "Because that it what is right!"

"Right?" he lowered the paper slowly onto the table, "You wish to talk to me about morals, my dear boy?" he laughed, "I have always been beyond what many think of as 'right'. Don't you agree?"

"No, I don't!" Watson replied, frustrated, "You're better than this, Holmes."

"Maybe I was, one long forgotten day ago. But now, I have no need to be better. I am almost invincible."

The doctor shook his head, "No one is invincible!"

Holmes held up a single finger, "Hence the use of the word almost," he said in a dark imitation of his old humour. A glimpse of what Holmes had been just a few weeks ago. With a smirk, curled his finger back into a fist and paused for a moment, then grinned, "Now, doctor, I have a proposition for you."

Watson frowned.

"My dear Watson, I propose you join me. Once more we can be like the days of old. Brothers together! Only this time, there would be no need for you to entertain yourself during my days between cases," he chuckled, "For, now I can decide when my cases show themselves."

"I can't do that Holmes," Watson shook his head, "I admit the days of old as you call them were, and still are, my fondest memories. But what you have created here. Created of yourself! Is something I simply cannot do! This is illegal!"

"You have helped me carry out many illegalities actions before."

"That's because it was in the name of good! This is for personal gain!"

"I think you will find, Watson, I have gained nothing."

"Then why, Holmes? Please, tell me why. I don't understand."

Holmes shrugged, "I suppose it is a thrill. I don't quite know exactly what it is that drives me so," he drifted into silence for a moment then, waved at the door, "But of course, I had expected your decision. If you could see yourself out, I have a lot of work to keep me occupied."

Watson took a deep breath, "I'm going to have to tell the police, Holmes."

A bark of laughter escaped his lips, "The police are useless fools who can no more find their own clothes than any of my criminals without my help. Which, they still ask for on occasion. It is quite amusing."

"Your criminals? They work for you?"

He nodded, "When I have need of them, they are my lapdogs," a strange smirk tugged at Holmes' lips, "They fear me, Watson. It is a terrible, yet enjoyable feeling. I daresay it's quite addictive."

Watson swallowed, scared of the man he once knew, "I have to tell them, Holmes."

"I understand," Holmes fixed the doctor with a flat stare, "In which case, you must understand that although I have yet to commit anything other than theft and the single abduction, I have little doubt in my mind that I could turn my hand to far more heinous crimes, should the need arise."

Watson was too shocked to reply. He simply stared at his old friend, struck dumb by the barely concealed threat in his voice. Despite the death threats he had received over his time, this one shot straight through him. He blinked, trying to keep his breathing calm.

Holmes' smirked as he tilted his head, "You've gone pale, dear doctor. Would you care for a drink?"

Watson shook his head, unable to speak.

Holmes hmm'ed as he turned back to the window, "Then I really must bid you adieu. It really does not do to be behind schedule. As always, it has been good to see you, Watson."

The door creaked as Watson opened it.

"Give my best to your lovely fiancé," Holmes said over his shoulder.

The door shut. Holmes smirked.


	2. Chapter 2

**Woop, I have vague plotline!! Well, kind of anyways. Anyways. This is yet another image I had. I think that's basically what this story will consist of. A series of random scenes strung together with loose links. Actually, no it's not going to be all like that. Hopefully.... Enjoy!!! I love my reviewers!! xx**

The carriage didn't stop until at least twenty minutes after Watson had been lead back out of the building, blindfolded once again. His one man escort had said very little since they had set off. But then again, Watson wasn't in the mood for conversation. He had long since drifted into confused thoughts. The sound of the door of the carriage unlocking to his right roused him.

"Here we are, Dr. Watson," the man sitting across from him said, politely.

"Where exactly is here?" he replied curtly.

There was a sound of movement then hands moving at the back of his head before the blindfold fell away. Watson glanced out of the carriage, trying to find at least a street sign or some kind of indication of where he was.

"We are at the Opera House, sir," the man replied, "Mr. Holmes says that you would be able to find your own way from here."

Watson nodded, silenced once again at the thought of his old friend. Clutching his cane in his hand, he stepped out of the carriage. The man nodded his head in return before closing the door. The horses were spurred as soon as it shut and the carriage drove away, joining the rest of the traffic that was traversing London as though nothing was amiss. He sighed to himself as he tried to work out what Holmes was thinking. Or more importantly, what he was going to do about it.

Tapping his cane on the floor, he turned and started walking down the street. He knew one thing. Holmes was more than capable of becoming the greatest criminal mastermind that the world had ever seen. A small voice in the dark corner of his mind asked why he hadn't taken Holmes up on his offer. It would have been intriguing to have watched Holmes work. Admittedly he had missed the days that the two of them worked together. Watson shook his head and the voice was quickly silenced and pushed back where it belonged. He had already decided on what he was going to do. It had taken half the carriage journey to steel himself. Holmes' threat was still clear in his mind. But no matter how many times Watson tried to deny it, he knew that Holmes could do exactly what he said. The only thing he was clinging to was the fact that he doubted the detective would be able to bring himself to do it. It was a slim hope.

He tried not to think any deeper as his cane clicked on the pavement as he approached the police station. Another wave of doubt washed him as he stopped outside the door. Swallowing his nerves, he entered.

Inside, the men in officer's uniforms and those who had been promoted beyond the need to wear one were bustling around in their daily routines. The odd person greeted Watson with a nod of the head. His association with Holmes had made him quite well known. He didn't return the greetings, but turned and shut the door deliberately slowly, trying to put off the inevitable as long as possible.

"Dr. Watson?"

The doctor winced as he heard the familiar voice of officer Clarkson behind him. Painting a polite smile on his face, he turned, "Clarky. Good to see you," he noticed the small frown on the officer's forehead, "Is there something wrong?"

Clarky shook his head, "Not at all, sir. It's just you have arrived just in time."

"In time for what?"

Clarky was silent for a moment as he pushed a hand in his pocket and pulled out a small envelope, with Watson's name written intricately on the front, "It arrived yesterday afternoon for you, sir. There were instructions that we should burn it if you hadn't collected it by noon today."

Watson frowned as he took the envelope and studied the writing on the front, "Who delivered it, may I ask?"

Clarky shrugged, "A street urchin, sir. We haven't opened it since it arrived. I was on my way to destroy it now."

Slightly warily, Watson turned the envelope in his hands and slid a finger underneath the seal before ripping it open across the top. Inside was a single sheet of folded paper, written on in the same ink and hand as the envelope itself. His frown deepened as he started reading. Despite the foreign handwriting, he knew exactly who it was from.

_Well done, my friend, you are still the righteous man I knew you as. I had hoped, though, you would never have to read this letter. Although I commend your good intentions, I mean to reiterate that despite their best intentions, the police's involvement will be an exercise in futility and nothing more than a distraction on which I would have to keep my eye. _

_I apologise if you take my threat to heart, but it stands. You must understand that there is a new level of discretion which is essential to uphold. What I am doing requires a certain amount of secrecy and the work of our good policemen has never been what one could call subtle. Still, friend, there is a chance to avoid what you must have now realised is a very real threat to you. I highly doubt you have already informed the police. I know you well enough to realise that your curiosity far outweighs your desire for my incarceration. Which means that you still have the chance to walk away. Aware as you are of the sheer number of eyes that I have throughout this city, you will know just how quickly I will be informed of your actions. _

_So, once again, I present you with a proposition. Return home to your fiancé (who is safe from harm, as long as you keep her unaware of the current situation) and this can be forgotten. I assure you of that. _

_I'm sure that in the future, perhaps not all that unforeseeable, that you will have made preparations for whatever it is that you may think I plan and you will return here. With undoubtedly renewed vigour in your actions. I look forward to that day, honestly I do. But for today, my dear friend, I ask you to refrain. I would be grateful. _

_You never know what the future holds. Perhaps on the same day that you return here, I will already be waiting. But, the chances of that happening are zero. At best. _

_I am still where you would expect me to be. I hope that we will meet again._

_Adieu, friend. _

At the bottom was 'John Watson' signed the usual hand writing of Sherlock Holmes. Despite the care that he had taken to disguise his own hand, the detective had left the final hint at the end of the letter, to dismiss any doubt in Watson's mind as to the sender.

He drew in a shaking breath, "You say this arrived yesterday?" he asked Clarky, staring at the letter.

Clarky nodded, "Yes, sir. It was about two in the afternoon. What's the matter sir? Is there anything I can get you?"

Watson folded the paper and slid it back into the envelope, "No thank you," he quickly pocketed the letter and turned from the building.

It turned out that Holmes had predicted Watson's actions. He had worked out his every thought and stepped ahead. Had he expected any less? There was at least one worry from his mind. Mary was safe. As long as he let nothing slip.

*

Watson rubbed the side of his face as the cab he had gotten pulled up outside his house. Mary was going to know something was up. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out and tossed the driver a coin from his pocket, not even sure if it was the right amount. It must have been more, because the driver gave a loud 'thanks' as he drove away.

No sooner had he opened the door did he hear the voice of his beloved fiancé. He groaned internally as she came out of the living room, smiling.

"John," she said, surprised, "I didn't expect you back so soon," she chuckled, "I had thought the good detective would have demanded more of your time. Was Mr. Holmes unwell?"

Suddenly, he wished he had never told her of his plans when he set out that morning. He shook his head as he closed to door, "No. He was a little unwell after testing some chemical. I left him to it."

"You seem distressed. I'm sure he will be fine," she stepped forward to place a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sure he will," he muttered to himself.

Mary squeezed his shoulder and offered a small smile, "May I ask what is on the letter?" she asked, casting a curious glance Watson's hand.

He looked down. Holmes' letter was back in his hand after he had spent the entire journey back rereading it, "It's just doctor's notes. Nothing interesting," he replied as he walked past her and into the living room.

Mary stood in the corridor for a moment, frowning after him, "Are you sure you're alright, John?" she asked, following.

Watson nodded as he sat in one of the chairs, "I'm fine, honestly. I'm just a little tired."

"Would you like anything?" she asked.

A newspaper on the table caught Watson's attention. He shook his head at Mary's question as he leant forward and lifted the paper. Across the front were the words 'Theft Rife in London'. It seemed once again, Holmes had made the front page.

After a moment of thinking, he stood and dug one of his blank notebooks from the draw and set about reading the article, a pen in his hand. Holmes had once again predicted Watson's actions. He was going to return to the police station. Eventually.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for the delay. School etc has been kinda getting in the way. Plus, the plot is only just coming to form with the help of friends. Thanks guys! oh and a massive thank you to all those who have reviwed!!! Love you all soo much!!!!!!! xxxxxx**

The candle flame flickered as the door to Watson's study opened slowly. He looked up from the newspaper article he was annotating, somewhat reluctantly.

"John?" Mary said, softly as she entered, "What are you doing up here?"

Watson leant back in his chair, revealing the newspaper.

She sighed at the sight, "Still? I don't understand why you are so fascinated by these crimes so suddenly," she remarked, approaching.

He picked up the paper and read through it again, sighing, "They are completed unconnected, Mary. I don't understand it. None of them seem related in any way! There has to be a link somewhere."

She placed a hand on his shoulder, "Or perhaps, there is not. They may be completely unrelated."

Watson laid the paper on the table again, "I highly doubt it."

Mary smiled as she lifted the tray of tea from beside the doctor, "Maybe you should ask Mr. Holmes if you're so determined to find something from all of these crimes. Certainly he would have something to say on the subject."

"I wouldn't like to ask," Watson almost whispered.

Mary shook her head as she left, "You've become more and more like him, you know, John. Perhaps you will be able to solve these cases after all."

Watson frowned at her back as she closed the door, thinking over her comment. Blinking away fatigue, he once again leant forward and continued scribbling notes on the article. It had been four days since he had last spoken with Holmes and since then the papers had been listing more and more thefts, each more intricate than the last. All of the objects stolen seemed completely arbitrary. They ranged from horses, to paintings, to the entire contents of someone's wardrobe and even one case of a young woman's diary. There was no pattern whatsoever. Despite Watson's best attempts at putting his old friend's methods into practice they had so far been futile. He could find nothing. Of course, Holmes himself had said that the papers rarely report all of the available information. But it would be closest Watson would be able to get to the crime scenes without the detective.

He had refrained from visiting the police station, well aware that his actions could easily be misconstrued by whoever it was Holmes had watching him. Besides, they wouldn't give him any information. It was frustrating to think that Holmes would be able to waltz in and gather everything he needed. Thinking about it, Watson had been out very little. He had confined himself to his room. Mary had been good enough to bring him his food and he rarely even left to sleep. Just letting himself doze off in his chair.

He hit his fist on the desk as he suddenly realised that Mary was right. After a moment, he rubbed the side of his face with his hand and stood. Being sure to check Holmes' letter was still tucked in his trouser pocket, he plucked his coat from the back of the chair and left the room.

Mary was in the kitchen down the corridor, making him some more tea when she heard the sound of his study door closing.

"Are you going out, John?" she called.

Watson donned his coat before answering, "Yes, I'm going for a walk to clear my head. I will be back in a couple of hours."

"Be as long as you wish," she replied, "It does no good to be cooped up in one room for so long."

"I whole-heartedly agree, Mary," Watson replied as he pulled open the front door of the house.

Outside, the sun was shining brightly on the street, bustling with people. He glanced around, to try and see if someone was watching him a little too closely. As usual there was no one. With a frustrated sigh he set off down the road. He had no idea of where he was heading, he just needed to go somewhere. Unlike the detective, he couldn't live in the same room for months on end.

Just as he took a step forward something crashed into him for behind. He stumbled forward, catching himself before he fell.

"I'm sorry, mister!" the voice of a young boy said quickly.

Watson turned and frowned at a dirty covered boy, picking himself off the floor. As subtly as he could he started to check his pockets. An old habit he had picked up from months of having Holmes send children to pickpocket him for fun. His pocket was empty. A corner of paper was poking out of the child's fist.

"I would like that back," Watson said, holding out his hand.

With a grin the boy started running. Glaring, Watson followed.

*

Holmes stood on the pavement, wearing his favourite coat and hat, his hands clasped behind his back, peering up at the front of the grand house in front of him. A young woman stood beside him, wringing her hands as she finished reeling off a long story.

He was silent for a moment before replying, "It sounds most distressing. If you give me time I shall look into this for you," Holmes said, still staring up at the building in front of them.

The woman gave a grateful smile, "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. If you would I will be truly thankful."

He nodded and turned his head to look at her, "I cannot promise anything though."

She shook her head quickly, suddenly nervous under his gaze, "No, of course not. It is a most confusing matter, I admit."

Holmes nodded again, just as his eyes moved from hers to gaze past her. A smile twitched at his lips as he held out his arm to one side. He grabbed the boy's arm as he passed, dragging him to a stop.

"Now, now, young sir, why are you in such a hurry?" he said, then looked at the woman, "You'll have to excuse me, madam, I have other business to attend to. I have your address, I shall inform you when I can."

"Thank you again, Mr. Holmes," she said before hurrying past him.

Holmes kept hold of the boy's arm as he watched Watson slow his laboured run to a jog as he realised who he was looking at. The detective smiled as the doctor approached.

"Good to see you again, Watson," he said.

Watson didn't reply. He simply leant against the iron fence, getting his breath back and wincing at the pain in his leg.

Holmes tilted his head and glanced down at Watson's leg, "Being a doctor, you know more than I that you should keep your leg moving to stop it seizing up," he looked up and caught Watson's gaze.

"I didn't plan to be chasing a pickpocket this morning," he replied, massaging his thigh with one hand.

Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise as he looked down at the boy, "Pickpocket?"

Watson shook his head, "Don't pretend to be surprised, Holmes."

"I don't know what you mean," he kept a straight face.

"Why would it be that the moment I step out of my house, I get robbed of the only thing that would cause me to chase after the thief? And then have the thief to lead me directly to the street on which you are? You hardly ever go out at this time!" he said frustrated.

Holmes shrugged, "Coincidence is a remarkable thing," he remarked as he pulled the piece of paper from the child's pocket, subtly dropping a coin into it at the same time. He let go of the boy as he unfolded the letter. The urchin nodded his head at the two men before heading away down the street. The detective smiled, "I didn't think you would keep this."

"It helps to remind me of your disguised writing."

He looked up from rereading it, "Ah, I see. I had wondered what you were obsessing over," he folded it again and held it out to him.

Watson snatched it from him and stuffed it into his pocket, "What makes you think I am obsessing?"

"You have not left your house in four days, there are bags under your eyes and ink over your hands, showing both fatigue and carelessness. Both of which come from prolonged concentration. Your shirt is creased and you still have the top two buttons undone, suggesting to me that you have moved very little over the four days you have been locked away. Your hair is no longer in its usual state of regimented neatness. It seems you have run your hand through it a number of times, probably due to the frustration," he chuckled, "Really, Watson, you seem to have forgotten just how well I know these symptoms."

Watson was silent.

"I trust you progressed some?" he asked, eyes glinting with genuine curiosity.

"If I had gotten anywhere, I wouldn't be here," Watson snapped, far more violently than he meant to.

Holmes looked a little taken aback at the tone, but recovered quickly, "Then Scotland Yard, I assume," he commented, quietly.

"Yes, Holmes, Scotland Yard," Watson muttered, his face to the floor, almost ashamed of himself.

Holmes sniffed and went back to looking up at the building, "Have you forgotten what I said?"

"Of course I haven't. I simply hoped that our friendship would mean something more to you."

"The same friendship that meant so much to you that you left," Holmes said quietly.

Watson frowned, "Is that what you think? Holmes I never left you."

"Then please explain to me, why I have been alone in Baker Street with no one but Mrs. Hudson to keep me company for the past five weeks."

"Because I have been almost buried in the amount of work I have had. I was on my way to visit you when you had me kidnapped!" he calmed himself and looked at the floor, "Look, Holmes. If my leaving has brought this upon you, then I apologise. Perhaps if I had taken more time to visit then you may not have done this."

Holmes glanced at him, "Perhaps..."

They were silent for a moment, until Watson looked at him.

"Who was the woman you were speaking with, may I ask?" he asked.

Holmes started to run his gaze down the front of the building, "Is this part of your investigation?"

"No, it's simple curiosity."

"She is a potential client," he replied, simply, "Like I said before, I take no personal gain from my new occupation. I must keep up with the rent somehow."

Watson nodded slowly, "What is the case?"

"It is a theft," despite the annoyed facade Holmes was trying to uphold, he had to fight hard against a smirk, "Today seems full of coincidence."

Watson narrowed his eyes, "So it seems. I get the feeling you have no real need to solve this case."

He looked at the doctor, "You know me too well, old boy. It is true, I already know the thief."

"You do plan to return whatever it is that has been stolen, don't you Holmes?"

The detective raised an eyebrow, smiling, "Are you implying it was I that is the thief?" he chuckled again, "You have no evidence, you must not make assumptions. I intend to return the items in question to their rightful owner once I have completed a full interview with the client and gleaned all the information I can."

"Why do you bother? Surely you already know all there is to know?"

"Yes I do, but it seems intriguing to see the crime from another point of view," he mused, "Don't you think? You are still welcome to join me if you wish."

Watson shook his head, "No, thank you, Holmes."

He shrugged one shoulder, "I'm sure you will come to see it my way in time," he checked his pocket watch, and then drew an envelope out of his pocket, "I received this telegram yesterday. You may wish to use it in your investigation."

Watson took the envelope, somewhat gingerly, "Who is it from?"

"An associate of mine. It contains some vague details about something he wishes to carry out with my help. Perhaps you have learnt well enough from me that you would be able to extract some usable information from it. Even enough for an arrest."

"You want to betray him?"

Holmes sniffed, "It makes no difference to me. Despite my recent actions, there is still a part of me that wishes for justice for those crimes which have gone unpunished. But there is a new voice telling me that in the current state of affairs I could use allies. Of course, the same voice is telling me that one more in prison, is one less to compete with."

Watson frowned, "What do you expect me to do?"

"Do what you will. I don't think I can sway your decisions as I once could," he grinned, "That does not, however, mean that I won't try," he tipped his hat then turned and walked away, disappearing almost instantly into the crowds.


	4. Chapter 4

**Heya guys! thanks for waiting, sorry i've been quite busy + family life has kinda been messing things up. BUT! now i should be back on schedule! thanks again for the reviews and story favourites and alerts and everything!!!! love you all x**

There was a musty smell in the air. The smell of dust and age. Not for the first time since he arrived he wished he had brought a candle, or matches, or something to provide even a little light. Where he was stood in a dark cellar was pitch black. He had hidden himself in a small side room off the main cellar, leaving the door open slightly so that he would be able to see what was happening. The darkness did serve the purpose of keeping him hidden. The details in the telegram were not as subtle as he had expected. He had puzzled them out relatively quickly. The majority of his time since, had been trying to work out what he was supposed to do. If he went to the police, it was more than likely that the police would arrive at the wrong time and arrest Holmes as well. As much as he hated what Holmes had become he still clung to the hope that there was a way to turn it around. If he ignored the telegram then more crime would be allowed to be carried out. In the end, he had simply grabbed his coat and his cane and headed for the cellar of an abandoned house.

That's where he had been waiting for the past hour or so. It was impossible to see the face of his watch so he didn't know exactly how long he had been there. He had spent the time trying to figure out what he was going to do. There was a sound of footsteps descending the stone steps into the cellar. Lantern light cast the wall opposite where Watson was hiding and he pressed himself into the shadows.

"Where is he?" a gruff voice said.

"Relax, Gregg," someone else replied, "He'll be here."

"We should never have trusted him, Shaun. He'll have sent for the police. That's why he's not here."

"Relax! He has no reason to send for the police."

Watson risked a look around the corner of where he was hiding. In the light of a small iron lantern there were the two men. They were both tall and heavily built, but one had obviously seen more fights than the other. He was clearly more agitated as well. He glanced around the cellar a moment before fixing his companion with a stern look.

"How do you even know this guy?" he asked, setting the lantern on the floor.

The other shrugged, "An acquaintance of a contact of mine. He has done a good job of keeping himself unknown to most people despite the amount of activity he has been involved in."

Watson narrowed his eyes. They must be talking about Holmes.

"Why do you trust him?"

"I never said I did. Which is why you are here."

The sound of more footsteps made him glance at the stairs.

"Good evening gentlemen," Holmes grinned, as he descended the stairs, a bodyguard followed close behind.

The other men turned, "You're late."

Holmes nodded, "Yes, yes, I apologise. There was something I wished to check on before I arrived," he cast his eyes around the cellar. Watson had to refrain from making a noise as the detective's gaze settled on the door. He narrowed his eyes almost unnoticeably.

"Shall we get down to business?" Shaun said.

Holmes dragged his eyes away from the door, "Yes of course. What was it that you wanted to discuss with me?"

Gregg frowned at Holmes, then looked at the door where Watson was hiding, while Shaun drew a photograph from his pocket and handed it over. Holmes took it, while watching Gregg intently.

"Is there a problem?" Holmes asked.

Gregg glanced at him before heading towards the door.

"What are you doing?" Shaun hissed, obviously reluctant to let anything mess up the meeting.

Holmes tilted his head, watching, "You know, my time is worth a lot."

Gregg ignored him. A series of swear words ran through Watson's head as the man approached. He pressed himself against the wall, praying to as many gods as he could that it would open up and swallow him. He gripped his cane as Gregg came closer.

"Gregg, leave it!" Shaun ordered.

He ignored him and pulled the door open. Before Watson could react, Gregg punched him square in the nose. Dazed, the doctor didn't resist as he was dragged from the side room and thrown to the floor.

"I told you he couldn't be trusted," Gregg said, "This man was spying on us!"

Holmes glanced at Watson then at Gregg, "Pray explain how that throws my trustworthiness into question."

"Mr. Holmes, do you know this man?" Shaun asked.

Holmes took a moment to study Watson before shaking his head, "No, I do not," the lie slipped from his tongue so smoothly it was hard even for Watson to tell whether he was telling the truth or not.

Gregg pulled out a knife, "Then you won't mind if I kill him."

Holmes had to pause to stop himself from reacting, then reached into his jacket for his pipe, "Do what you will."

Gregg smirked as he grabbed Watson's hair and pulled his head back so his throat was showing. He moved the cold metal close against his skin. The doctor stared up at Holmes, who was busy filling his pipe with tobacco, torn between begging him to help and staying silent and trusting.

"But," Holmes said, suddenly, halting Gregg's movements. He continued to stuff tobacco as he spoke, "I would warn you that this is clearly not just a street urchin or a member of the working classes whom no one would care for. No doubt he has a fiancé or possibly wife who would be distraught were he not to return. She would most likely know that he had plans and would inform the police straight away were he not to return," he caught Watson's eye, "And besides her, I am certain there a few people in very powerful positions who would take serious actions were this man to go missing."

Shaun narrowed his eyes, "How do you know that? He might be a loner who just happens to have a little money."

Holmes lit his pipe and took a couple of drags before speaking, "While that is true, would you be willing to stake your freedom and possibly your lives on that possibility."

Gregg held the blade against Watson's throat, "So what do you suggest? We just let him go, he'll go straight to Scotland Yard."

"Then keep him here," Holmes said, "Once we are done, I shall take care of him."

"What will you do with him?" Shaun asked, suspiciously.

"My methods are my own," Holmes replied, "But be sure, he will tell no one about what happens here," he looked down at Watson as smoke curled into the air.

Gregg hesitated a moment before removing the knife from Watson's throat. The doctor tried not to show the relief too much as he let his head drop forward and started breathing again. For a moment he actually thought Holmes would have let them kill him. The detective held out a hand to help him up.

"Now, Mr..."

"Watson."

"Mr. Watson, would you mind standing to one side while we continue?" Holmes said, gesturing in the general direction of the side door.

Watson nodded and stepped to one side.

Holmes went back to studying the photograph that Shaun had given him. After a moment he took a deep breath, "I assume you wish me acquire this for you."

"Of course," Shaun replied, "Why else would I have called to meet with you?"

"Do you know how much it is worth?" he asked, his eyes dancing across the photograph.

Shaun thought for a moment, "Roughly."

"Then that is my price," he stated.

Gregg frowned, "That's extortionate!"

Holmes shrugged, then folded the photo in half and held it out to him, "Then I do hope you're sorry for wasting my time."

Shaun took a deep breath, "Mr. Holmes is there no way we could come to an arrangement."

"My time and my talents are worth a great deal," Holmes replied, still holding out the photo, "The amount of my time and my talents it takes are directly proportional to the price of the object in question. Ergo you bid me obtain an item of extortionate value, the costs will be extortionate. Unless you can find a way to lower the price of said object then no, there will be no arrangement."

Shaun glanced at Gregg before speaking, "Then I shall pay you half now, half-."

Holmes cut him off, "No, the full payment will be up front. No cheques, if you please."

"I don't carry that kind of money!"

"Then you have three days to gather it," he tucked the photo inside his jacket.

"And how will I find you when I have it?"

"Do not trouble yourself," Holmes said turning, "I shall find you when you have it. If you will excuse me, our business tonight is done. If you would come with me Mr. Watson."

Holmes turned and headed back up the stairs. His bodyguard, who had remained stoically silent throughout, gestured for Watson to go ahead of him before walking behind them both.

It was dark outside, the moon and stars were blocked by cloud, the only light came from the lamp across the street. Partially blocking the light, though, was a carriage, it's driving apparently just rousing from a short nap. The bodyguard opened the door for Holmes who stepped in without a word, then waited for Watson to go ahead of him. As the guard was about to step in but Holmes shook his head.

"No thank you, I shall be fine," he said simply.

The guard glanced at Watson for a moment before nodding and closing the door for them. It clicked locked and the horses were whipped into a trot. For the first time, Watson suddenly felt nervous in Holmes' presence. The man sat back in his seat staring at him with a look completely devoid of emotion. It was several long seconds before he spoke.

"What possible thought could have passed through your mind?" he said quietly.

"What?"

"When I gave you that telegram I did not mean for you to come here yourself," he growled, "Do you realise how much you put at stake?"

"No, Holmes, I don't," Watson couldn't help but sneer, "Was it your precious theft?"

"No, Watson! It was your own life. I don't think you realise how close you came to death. Did you not feel that knife against your throat? There was nothing that I would have been able to do had that man not believed me. You would have bled to death on the floor of a dirty cellar."

Watson just looked at his hands, silently.

Holmes shook his head and looked out of the window, "What did you expect to be able to accomplish?"

"I don't know Holmes," he admitted, "I honestly do not know. Perhaps the thought of sitting around and doing nothing wasn't something my conscience could cope with. And going to Scotland Yard would put too much at risk. It was the best compromise."

Holmes raised an eyebrow, "If it is I that you are worried for then you worry unnecessarily. I wouldn't allow myself to be in danger of arrest."

"Even you can make mistakes Holmes," Watson replied.

"Which is exactly why you should not be foolish enough to put yourself in these situations!" he almost shouted then calmed himself, "What if I had made a mistake?"

"Stop making it seem as though I am the one at fault here! You, Holmes, were the one who gave me the information in the first place!"

"Not with the intention of you following me," Holmes stated calmly, "You had already made it clear you wanted nothing to do with me, I gave you the opportunity to have a known criminal put in prison. Had I known what you were going to do I would not have given you that telegram," Holmes sank into a thoughtful silence for a moment as he pressed his fingertips together and leant them against his chin.

Watson regarded the detective for a moment, "I thought you had said you don't take any money from your work."

"I don't," he replied, not looking up.

"Then explain why you charged them?" Watson said frowning.

Holmes glanced up, "I thought you had no interest in what I do."

The doctor narrowed his eyes, "I don't, I am interested as to why you lied to me."

He smirked, "I would never lie to you."

"Then explain."

"It's quite simple really. Despite what you may think, I am not heartless. The price I charge is what the criminal would pay for it. You could call me a buyer of goods not for sale," he smiled as he gazed out at the London streets passing by.

Watson frowned, trying to work out what Holmes was talking about, "You mean you _pay _the people you steal from?!"

"Well obviously it's not a face to face transaction but, yes in a way, I do. I feel it lessens the pain of being robbed. Also, I've found that if they receive something in returned they are not nearly as likely to go to Scotland Yard."

"I see, I think," Watson said slowly.

Holmes nodded then gazed out of the window again as the carriage began to slow. A frown twitched between his eyebrows as he looked. Watson followed his eyes. Standing outside the door of 221B Baker Street was Inspector Lestrade, flanked by three policemen.

"I should have kept my man with me I think," Holmes muttered before he plastered the usual sarcastic smile reserved just for Lestrade onto his face and opened the door. The Inspector didn't show any emotion as he stepped down the stairs towards them.

"Is there something I can help you with at this fine hour of the morning?" Holmes said brightly as he stepped out.

Lestrade regarded him for a moment before speaking, "Mr. Holmes, I'd like to talk to you down at the station."


	5. Chapter 5

**Argh! Sorry for the delay with this chapter! I kinda hit a block. But it's passed and hopefully the chapters should be a little more regular! Hope you enjoy!! Loves to all my reviewers!! I 3 you all!!! Xxxx**

Holmes cast his deductive glance over the Inspector, trying to glean some kind of intention from him, "Whatever you have to say, Inspector, surely you can say it here."

Lestrade didn't waver as he usually did under the detective's glance, "I don't think so, Mr. Holmes."

"Why ever not?" Holmes grinned, "It's a beautiful night, no doubt Mrs. Hudson has left some tea out which can easily be warmed, Scotland Yard is a ten minute walk from here. Why not join Watson and I for the hour?"

Lestrade held Holmes' gaze, "Is there a reason you are reluctant to join us at the station?"

The detective didn't hesitate, "Not at all, I would just rather be in my own room. It has been a trying night. Please can you just ask me the questions here?"

Lestrade glanced at Watson, "They are somewhat private."

"And yet you will be making a note of them," he looked down at the notepad shape in the inspector's pocket, "No doubt the note will get 'lost' among the great tide of paper that there seems to be at Scotland Yard. Frankly, there is little information that is taken in confidence that remains in confidence. So please, ask me your questions."

The inspector took out his notepad and flipped up the top, "Where have you been tonight?"

"I was with Watson," he answered immediately, "We were enjoying a drink and time got away from us."

Watson had to fight not to react as he was casually used as an alibi.

Lestrade nodded and tried to conceal a yawn, but Holmes caught it.

"Inspector, if you are tired, we may continue this in the morning," he suggested, the falsely caring smile on his face, "Then you will be better rested and far more capable of this conversation."

Lestrade glared, torn between doing what he came here to do and agreeing with the detective and returning at daylight, "The nature of my visit is not one that can be put off until morning."

"Anything can be put off until morning," he paused, "Unless of course you're dying. Is that why you came at this hour? Would you like the doctor to take a look at you? I'm sure he wouldn't mind. Watson would you mind?"

Watson shot him a warning look. Holmes was starting to get a little to confident. He knew he could twist the inspector.

"If you wish me to, Inspector, I could remain here and make sure Holmes doesn't get far," Watson offered.

Lestrade regarded him somewhat suspiciously, "I'm afraid Dr. Watson that it may take more than just yourself," he paused and looked at one of the policemen behind him, "I'll leave James here and return tomorrow morning. Goodnight gentlemen."

Lestrade nodded his head to the pair as he walked away down the street, leaving only a reluctant looking James between them and the detective's front door. Holmes ignored him as he climbed the stairs, Watson close behind.

"Mr. Holmes!"

The door had barely closed behind them when an irate Mrs. Hudson hurried towards them, her face red.

Holmes winced and then took his hat off to her, "Nanny, I didn't think you stayed up this late. But please, do respect our neighbours."

She was about to shout again when she spotted Watson and visably calmed, "Oh thank God. You're back doctor. Please could you explain what he has done this time to have to the police banging on my door at this hour!"

Holmes rolled his eyes and started up the stairs, "There is nothing to concern yourself with, Mrs. Hudson, all is well."

"It is clearly not, Mr. Holmes! This is the second time in the past two days this has happened. Waking a woman all hours in the morning! It's simply not acceptable."

Holmes didn't seemed to be listening as he turned, "Some tea would be grately appreciated if you please," he knew full well that he wasn't going to get some, but it usually sent her into such a tirade that she had to leave his presence. Which was, of course, the only objective.

It worked.

"Tea! You return at three 'o' clock in the morning! The police have been banging on my door!" she took a deep and calming breath as she turned away from him. After only two steps, the angry muttering began as she hurried away.

The detective allowed himself a triumphant smile and glanced at the dazed doctor before continuing up the stairs. Watson followed after a moment of watching Mrs. Hudson walking away. He frowned but decided against saying anything.

Holmes' room had changed a lot since he had last been there. The orange light of a dying fire joined that of a freshly lit candle and an obviously quite new gas lamp on his desk. Holmes was already wearing his old and tattered robe and standing beside the mantelpiece. There was almost nothing on the floor. It had all been clearing and organised. Now though, papers were plastered over all the available wall space. Pencil and ink sketches scrawled across them and across some of the wall itself where it peeked out. The door to the room Watson once used as a practice had been shut off and the key to the door was in the lock.

"What did you think Lestrade wanted?" Holmes asked in a way that said he already knew the answer.

Watson sighed and shut the door behind himself, "You must not have covered yourself as well as you thought, Holmes," he replied, gazing at all the papers. They were more plans for his crimes, "You were really going to invite Lestrade up here for tea?"

Holmes remained almost perfectly still, gazing at the floor, chewing on his fingernails of one hand, "Of course not. You saw Mrs. Hudson's reaction when I mentioned tea."

"I was referring to these," Watson pulled one of the papers off the wall, revealing yet more scrawls on the wall itself.

"Ah, those. If I'm honest those had completely slipped my mind," he muttered, still staring at the floor.

"How have you had time to do all of these?"

"Long evenings once spent in conversation with yourself have been put to use. It seems we used to spend a lot of time doing nothing more than sitting here didn't we?" his voice was quiet.

"So you filled the free time with criminal activities," Watson said with barely concealed annoyance.

The detective's eyes moved from focusing on the floor to focusing on the back of Watson's head, "Perhaps if I didn't have quite so much free time then none of these events would have come to pass."

Watson turned and shook his head, "Don't twist this into my fault again Holmes."

"That is an odd conclusion draw from that statement," Holmes went back to staring at the floor, the logical part of his mind still working on the Lestrade issue while the other parts bent on Watson's reactions.

"You knew exactly what conclusion I would draw Holmes," the doctor narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Did I Watson? Are you trying to blame your interpretation of a deliberately obscure statement on the possibility that I somehow put words into your mouth? Or is it the automatic response of a guilty conscience?"

Watson's eyes narrowed further as Holmes caught his gaze and smirked, "Your ability to drag the desired response from me is not unheard of."

"The ability to drag a desired response from anyone who genuinely does not wish to give it usually resorts to torture. As I recall I never used torture."

"Not physical torture anyway," Watson muttered.

Holmes hummed tunelessly and began pacing. The logical part of his mind was beginning to drag pieces of an idea together.

The doctor frowned at the sudden movement, "This has you worried, doesn't it Holmes?"

Holmes grinned, "Not at all Watson. This is a problem, I agree. But all problems have a solution. The quest for solution is what I have dedicated my life to. The only difference here is the motivation for result."

"You think you could be arrested?" Watson asked, frowning.

Holmes chuckled, his eyes glinting, "I think it is the most probable outcome of tomorrow morning, yes."

"You're going to be arrested and you're laughing?" Watson asked incredulously, "Does this mean have some kind of idea?"

Holmes was silent for a moment as he continued pacing, then stopped and turned to Watson, "I may need your help."


	6. Chapter 6

**I apologise for not updating sooner but loads of stuff has been happening, plus I've been on holiday with no computer access. I know this chapter is a little short but it's better to have a little bit then none at all right? :/ sorry again. Hope you can forgive me!! Loves to reviewers!! xxxxxxx**

Watson fidgeted where he stood, "My help..." there was an obvious nervous edge to his voice.

Holmes nodded, excitedly, "No doubt the force will wish to speak to you about my whereabouts last night and possibly previous nights also."

The doctor frowned, "You want me to give you an alibi," he didn't seem surprised.

Holmes shrugged, "Perhaps. But I don't think it will be of much importance, whether you do or not. Though I would like to keep last night a secret if I can do so. For your own sake as much as mine," he plucked his pipe from his jacket pocket and sat in his chair, ignoring the papers that fell to the floor.

"Why don't you think it would make much of a difference?" Watson asked, perching on the edge of the chair opposite the detective.

"Because," he answered, stuffing his pipe, "Scotland yard clearly had reasons other than my actions last night. More than likely, they had arrived before I had descended those stairs," he lit his pipe and took a long inhale, then blew smoke in rings, "No, no, my dear Watson, an alibi is not what I need from you. You are a terrible liar anyway."

Watson was too confused to bother taking offense, "Then what is it you want?"

Clamping his pipe in his teeth, Holmes peaked his fingers, "There is a way by which it would be hard to pin the crimes to me."

The doctor rubbed the side of his face, "Drop the mystery Holmes. Just tell me."

He edged forward, taking his pipe out, "Well if, while I was safely locked away from society, several new crimes were to be committed..."

Watson stood from his seat as he realised what he was talking about, "No! I am not breaking the law for you."

Holmes leant back in his chair and regarded the doctor with almost amused eyes, "You've done it before."

"That was when I was helping a great detective. Doing it now would be helping a criminal," he remained standing, adamantly refusing to bend.

Holmes wafted his pipe, watching the smoke curl upwards, "I must say I am a little surprised. I would've thought our friendship meant a little more to you, Watson," he shrugged, as Watson's shoulders slumped slightly, "All it would have involved was sending the addressed envelopes kept in the small brown box in the left middle drawer of my desk, as well as those few slotted in between pages 95 and 96 of the large green volume of the second shelf of my bookcase," he smirked as Watson couldn't help but glance at the places Holmes mentioned, "But of course, I would not want to force you into anything you didn't wish to do."

Watson shook his head as though banishing some unwanted thought, "Don't try and manipulate me, Holmes."

Holmes fought his smile, "If you want no further involvement then it might be better if you leave. I promise I shall not mention you. Apart, of course, from your noble honour binding you irreverently to the law over any temptation. Scotland Yard will be proud. I'm sure even the King himself would be proud of such an outstanding citizen."

Watson glared at him and took a deep, calming breath. Holmes held his gaze, a smug smile on his face.

"Don't give me that look, Holmes," Watson warned.

Holmes wiped his expression and replaced it with one of innocence, "What look?"

"The look that means you've got it all figured out. That you know all your pawns will fall into place," Watson spoke with an anger Holmes hadn't heard before, "That idiotic look of confidence that everything you want will happen just because you deem it should!" The doctor was glaring fiercely now, "Not this time, Holmes. No matter how much you try to twist me or manipulate me as you've always done, it's not happening this time."

Holmes was frowning deeply, his pipe hanging a little limp in his mouth, "What exactly are you saying, John?"

Watson shook his head sadly, "As much as it pains me to say it you're going to be arrested and it's not unjust. I'm not helping you anymore," he headed to the door and hesitated with his hand over the handle, "When you're released, we'll talk again. Goodbye, Sherlock."

Holmes stood from his chair slowly, his face was a mask, "It is sad, that you do not wish to help me, Watson. But as you know there are plenty of other options I can take. Although, you have now seen quite a bit into my new world, so the threat I presented to you a number of days ago still stands. I must ask you not to give Scotland Yard any information as they carry out their enquiry," he paused, "I will know if you do. I apologise if this seems a little more unfriendly, but you have named yourself against me. Thus I must make precautions."

Watson said nothing for a moment then left the room, marvelling at just how quickly the man he once thought he knew could turn.

Holmes waited a moment and then pressed his ear to the door, wincing as he heard the front door close. He stood back and glanced around his room, thoughtfully. That was unexpected. But of course, Sherlock Holmes was not a man unacquainted with the unexpected. In a flurry of activity, he set a plan B into motion.

*

Watson limped down the dark street. He had left his cane at Baker Street but was not about to turn around to get it. Fear was growing in his stomach. He didn't know how much he would be able to keep from the police and he knew Holmes meant his threat. He could see that now. But as much as he hated himself for it, Watson didn't want to see Holmes go to prison. Even if he was thief, that was only the last few months of his life. The previous years had been spent in the pursuit of justice and only justice. He didn't know what to do. A part of him wished that Holmes hadn't even mentioned anything about it to him. But another part of him found something exciting in what he was doing. The rest was just trying to see reason.

But reason wasn't making itself obvious.


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey guys! Another delay again, I know *wince* please forgive me...i've been distracted by Cryptix's version of my story. Go read it! It's really good. Anyway, thanks for putting up with me. Hope you like this chapter. As always, reviews are always appreciated and loves to my reviewers already! xxxxxxx**

Watson sighed and laid the pen to one side. With a yawn, he rubbed his eyes and sat back in his the chair, scanning the piece of paper on the desk in front of him. His writing, he noted, had become messier over the past few days. Perhaps it was tiredness. Although, the most likely cause was stress. The past week had been threatening to push him over the edge. He glanced at the clock behind him on the mantle. Seven days ago to the hour, Watson had walked out on Holmes.

Just as the detective had predicted, the proceeding afternoon, his door had been visited by Lestrade and Clarky, much to Mary's confusion and distress. She had calmed a little once it was established they had come about Holmes and not Watson. But even then she was upset. The two officers asked the doctor a lot of questions that he genuinely couldn't answer. Though there had been the odd one that he had to lie about. He just hoped he wasn't as bad a liar as Holmes thought. But they seemed satisfied and left soon after they arrived, leaving Watson to console a distraught Mary.

The next day had been filled with a mixture of two fears. One was for himself and Mary. Even though he had tried to hide Holmes' activities as best he could, paranoia was whispering in his ear. The other fear though, was for Holmes himself. For all he had become, Watson still cared for the man. Despite what Holmes was doing, the doctor was sure there was still the old man under there. He showed himself from time to time.

Watson stretched the tiredness from his arms and leant forward to write again. Before he picked up the pen, his eyes drifted to where the newspaper dated two days ago lay neatly folded, the front headline hidden. The bottom of the photograph just showed over the curve. The shoulder of Holmes favourite coat was just distinguishable from the background. Watson flipped the paper over. It was the article that reported the arrest of the great detective Sherlock Holmes. None of the damning evidence was listed. Though thankfully, the sentence had been. Much to his annoyance, Watson was most relieved to find Holmes had not been sentenced to transportation or worse. He was simply to be imprisoned for a term.

The Holmes in the picture though was hidden behind his hat which he had tilted to the side to cover his face, obviously just as the flash went off. In the time since all Watson had achieved, however, was half a letter.

He glanced over his shoulder at the clock again. It was far too risk waking Mary. Another nap in his armchair it seemed. For a moment, guilt washed over him at the thought of Mary spending the night alone again. Though it didn't last long, as thoughts of Holmes sleeping in a prison bed soon invaded.

A loud knock at the front door was what roused him the next morning. Too exhausted to stand quickly, Mary had opened it and greeted the visitor long before Watson had made it to his study door. He must have looked a state, for the constable at the door stopped mid-sentence as Watson approached.

"D-Dr. Watson," he stammered then quickly regained himself, "I've been sent to collect you on special request."

Watson knew the answer to his own question even before he asked it, "By whom?"

"Sherlock Holmes, sir," he replied quickly.

Watson frowned, "It was my understanding that prisoners were not permitted visitors until the third month of their imprisonment."

"Correct, sir, unless the prisoner is gravely ill."

Watson paled, "Holmes is gravely ill?" he said quietly.

"What is wrong with him?" Mary asked mildly, somewhere beside him. Normally she would be more compassionate for a person who had succumbed to illness, but over the past few days she had, understandably, lost that compassion for Holmes.

The constable shook his head, "We don't know, he refuses to see any physician."

"Stubborn fool," Watson muttered, then turned and unhooked his jacket from behind the door.

Mary watched him, "You are actually going?"

"Of course I am, dear. I can't leave the man to possibly die," he paused and smiled, "I won't let him coerce me into anything. I promise," he quickly kissed her cheek before following the constable out of the door and into the hansom that he had arrived in.

Watson had not the same knowledge of London's streets as the detective did so he had little idea of where they were going. His thoughts were elsewhere, rendering him unable to even guess their direction. It was at least a half hour before the carriage finally pulled up outside the prison. Watson simply stared at the constable's back as they entered the building. A part of him did not wanting to see what conditions Holmes had driven himself to.

Desperate to break the tension that thickening by the second, Watson tried to find something to talk about. A distraction from the numerous prison cells they were beginning to pass. Eyes peered out at them.

Watson cleared his throat, "So, um, what is wrong with Holmes?"

"Like I said, sir, we don't know," the constable replied, "He refuses to eat or drink. He picks at the wall and the bed post almost continuously. The surgeon can't get him to speak about anything. He's starting to think the man has gone a little mad, sir."

Watson frowned, "Not eating?"

"No, sir," he replied, "Nothing we do seems to be able to convince him to do so. The prison physician has agreed to meet us at Holmes' cell. He should be able to give you more information."

Watson nodded, "He hasn't spoken either? How did you know he wanted to see me?"

"There was a folded piece of paper on his floor under his bed with your name on it," he replied, still walking confidently through the dark corridors of the prison.

"Was there anything else written on it?"

"We don't know, sir. Every time someone would try to get close to it, Holmes would get rather violent. In his weakened state, the surgeon decided it was of too little importance to risk his health."

"I see," Watson fell into silence again as a third man appeared up ahead, stood peering into one of the cells through a small window in the door. He turned as he heard the footsteps approaching and smiled.

"Ah, Dr. Watson I presume," he said, extending a hand in greeting, "My name is Dr. Jesse."

Watson shook it, although somewhat feebly, "Pleased to meet you. How is Holmes?"

Jesse glanced into the room and then sighed, "Weak. Very weak. No food or water in these conditions is a bad."

"How long hasn't he eaten for?"

"Since his imprisonment."

Watson took a deep breath. Even when Holmes was in his moods in Baker Street he could still be forced to eat something once a day. After a moment, he nodded, "May I speak with him?"

"You may, just don't expect much of a response," Jesse nodded to the constable who stepped forward and unlocked the door and held it open for Watson to enter.

He hesitated in the doorway and turned to them, "I would prefer some privacy if that is at all possible."

"I will have to lock you in, sir," the constable replied.

Watson nodded, "That is fine." He turned away and glanced around the cell as the door was shut behind him and the hatch across the window shut.

It was small with bare walls and a plain stone floor, illuminated by a window set in the back wall.. The only furniture was a wooden desk attached to the wall and a low bed. It was there that Holmes was lying on his side, his eyes closed, curled into the foetal position. Watson approached cautiously, wincing. It was only now that he realised he had made the entire journey here without his cane, which he assumed was still in Baker Street. With some effort, Watson lowered himself onto his haunches and peered at Holmes face. The detective didn't react as Watson checked the man's pulse and breathing. Both seemed perfectly normal. Satisfied that he wasn't at death's door, the doctor proceeded to lean down and peer under the bed. In the shadow of the bed, he could just about make out the outline of a crumpled piece of paper towards close to the wall. Watson glanced once at Holmes before reaching under to grab it.

"That may be private you know, Watson," Holmes muttered, his eyes still closed.

Watson was caught off guard for a moment, then continued to reach for the paper, "You're in a prison, Holmes, you have no right to privacy any longer," he grabbed the paper and brought it out.

"You know you shouldn't be walking without your cane, I have told you this before," Holmes commented quietly, still with his eyes closed.

Watson ignored him as he pulled out the paper and flattened it out on the floor, away from the shadow of the bed. Just as the constable had said, '_John Watson_' was written out neatly on one half of the page. While on the lower half were four words.

'_Don't make me beg._'

Watson frowned at the paper and then looked up at Holmes. The detective was regarding him silently. Pleadingly.


	8. Chapter 8

**Woop! New chapter! Hope you like! I'm really running out of things to say in these intros...Hmm ah well. I love all reviewers! Please let me know what you think. LOVES xXxXx**

"Holmes," Watson breathed, "I don't understand. Don't make you beg? Beg for what?"

Normally, Holmes would have been inclined to make Watson aware of just how dense he was being. But he frankly didn't have the willpower. Instead he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply before opening them again and catching the doctors grey eyes with his own.

"I don't think I can take this for much longer," he muttered, letting his gaze drift to the floor where it remained, "I'm trapped, Watson."

He frowned, "Of course you're trapped Holmes. You're in prison."

Holmes made a feeble attempt at shaking his head, "No, Watson. My thoughts. They seem stuck in a constant loop," he was speaking to the floor almost inaudibly, "Round and round and round. The same thoughts over and over again. I cannot take it."

Watson shuffled closer to the bed, the deep set creases of confusion on his forehead becoming ones of concern, "What thoughts would those be, Holmes?"

The detective seemed to search the flagstones for a moment before looking up, "I...I don't rightly know anymore," he blinked slowly then returned his slightly wide-eyed stare to the floor, "I once read a theory. That the mind can only hold a certain amount of information at any one time," he narrowed his eyes at the middle distance, "I have no release here."

The doctor watched him silently. He had heard the same theory. Holmes' great mind had always been able to vent itself. Whether the vices had been eccentric inventions, monograms on crime detection, drug induced fancies, seemingly pointless experiments or even just long and excited talks with Watson or a somewhat reluctant Mrs. Hudson, there had always been a vice available.

"This is punishment for the life you started to lead," Watson forced himself keep adamant. The man had broken the law and he had to pay for it. No one is exempt.

Holmes' lips twitched, a bare shadow of amusement, "Ironic. My mind becomes lost to me as a punishment for striving to keep it alive."

"You were stealing from people and you were arrested, I see little irony," no matter how hard he tried, Watson just couldn't force any anger into his voice. Not when he could see Holmes like this. The worst thing was, this time Watson was sure that Holmes wasn't just acting to get his own way.

Holmes fell silent for a moment, then pushed himself upright with some effort. He slumped back against the wall and rubbed a hand through his hair, only to have it fall over his eyes again once his arm fell back onto the bed, "This place will drive me to insanity Watson."

Watson watched his friend, "No, Holmes. You are just being melodramatic. All you need to do is eat something. All this...this mind entrapment is dehydration and malnutrition. Accept the food, have a glass of water and I'm sure it will all right itself."

"You have inferred cause and effect the wrong way around, dear boy. The dehydration and malnutrition come as a result of my loathing to continue an existence in this state of borderline lunacy. Some may be able to find some way to live in this tedium. I simply cannot cope with it," he took a deep breath that caught in his throat, "Surely you know me well enough to know that. Watson."

Watson avoided his gaze as he replied, "What would you have me do, Holmes? I absolutely refuse to help you. You broke the law and now you must pay for it as anyone else must," he used the bed to push himself to his feet, unsteadily, "You say you cannot cope? I say that is something you should have paid heed to before you crossed the line," he forced himself to look down at the pitiful Holmes and as he did any stubbornness melted, "Why did you do it Holmes? There must have been some other motive. Please tell me that you were following a case or trying to get close to a crime lord."

"If I was to say there was, would it help my cause?"

Watson bit his lip, "It may."

Holmes' lips twitched once again, it seemed his didn't have the energy or the willpower to smile properly, "No, Watson, there was no ulterior motive."

Watson nodded sadly and looked at the floor, "Then I can't help you Holmes, you'll have to survive on your own," with all the willpower he could summon, he turned away from the detective and knocked on the door. Holmes spoke again as it was opening.

"I don't think I can do that John...I need help."

Watson didn't look over his shoulder as he left the cell. He kept his face down as the door was shut behind him and the key locked.

"What was he saying, doctor?" Dr. Jesse asked eagerly, "We could hear talking but not what was being said."

Watson swallowed quietly before speaking, "He says he's not coping very well," he muttered before walking away down the corridor. The physician hurried after him, the officer though left to attend to other duties.

"Dr. Watson, there must have been more than that," he pressed.

Watson shook his head, "Pray, keep an eye on him, sir. I can find my own way out."

Sensing his mood, the surgeon slowed and finally stopped in his tracks, allowing Watson to walk on ahead alone, struggling more than ever against his conscience.

The hansom rumbled quickly away from the prison following Watson's instructions to get away from the place as fast as possible. Inside the carriage, Watson let his head fall back against the head rest and he closed his eyes. The image of Holmes lying on the bed was still prominent in his thoughts and he suspected it would be for some time. The man was a fool. He knocked his head against the back of the carriage to bring himself out of the dark thoughts. There was nothing he could do for the detective anyway. No, that wasn't strictly true.

"_All...involved...sending the addressed envelopes...small brown box in the left middle drawer of my desk ...between pages 95 and 96...large green volume...second shelf..."_

There was something Watson could do. He simply wouldn't. Not even for his dearest friend. A friend being driven mad cooped up in a damp cell. Alone. He knew that if he did nothing I would eat away at his conscience for the rest of his life. Holmes was not a man one could forget easily. No doubt he made a stark impression on every person he had exchanged words with.

The doctor leant his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands as a wave of guilt washed over him. All it would take to save him was deliver some envelopes. The detective would have in place plans to prevent any repercussions, otherwise he wouldn't have suggested it. After a moment of steady deep breaths, Watson leant out of the window of the hansom.

"Excuse me!" he called to the driver who turned to look over his shoulder while trying to negotiate the roads, "Can you please take me to Baker Street? I'm willing to pay the extra fee!"

The driver tipped his hat to him and turned the horses down a side street. Watson pulled his head back into the carriage and started trying to fully rationalise what he was going to do. He was doing it for Holmes. A great man. A man whom the country would sorely miss were he to lose his sanity to the prison system. A man whom Watson would sorely miss more than anyone.

He sighed to himself as he sat back and watched London roll by, "I'm sorry Mary. I couldn't keep my promise."


	9. Chapter 9

**Heya guys, new chapter, sorry I hit kind of a block but tis hopefully over now. Ah well, please review, I love to hear what you think! Love you all xxxxx**

It felt odd returning to Baker Street, knowing Holmes wasn't there. For a second, he wondered how Mrs. Hudson was coping. All this couldn't be doing her any good. Watson ascended the stairs, listening to the hansom wheels roll away down the street. Leaning heavily on the banister, he knocked on the door, wincing at a twinge in his leg. The door was soon opened by Mrs. Hudson, who raised her eyebrows in surprise at her guest.

"Dr. Watson, I didn't expect you here," she said, "Do come in."

Watson nodded and stepped through, "Thank you."

She closed the door behind him and then turned to face him, "To what do I owe this visit?" she asked gently, obviously picking up on Watson's mood.

"I've come to collect a few things from Holmes' rooms," he replied, "If that's alright."

She nodded, "By all means," she gestured up the stairs, "Please take anything you need. No one else is going to be using it any time in the near future."

He frowned at her, "Aren't you planning on taking another lodger?"

She sighed, "If I'm honest, I'm not sure the room is in the proper state for anyone but Mr. Holmes or yourself to inhabit."

Watson couldn't help but smile. He knew she could easily set about clearing out the rooms or have someone else do it. She simply didn't want to. Perhaps the nanny cared for her charge as much as the mother hen did. They stood in silence for a moment, staring up the stairs towards the rooms before Mrs. Hudson broke the silence.

"Well I shall leave you to it, I have much to be getting on with. If you will excuse me."

"Yes of course," Watson nodded as his old landlady walked away into one of the doors. Watson took another moment before ascending the stairs. It took him some time to reach the top, a mixture of the pain in his leg and the apprehension of what he was about to do was slowing his progress considerably.

The room itself felt considerably different as Watson stepped through the door. The curtains had been drawn fully, illuminating a sight strange to him. The floor space was completely visible, not a single stray item or paper upon it. Holmes' old desk had been organized and neat piles had been made of the things upon it. One of the windows had been thrown open, clearing the room of the dank and smoky smell. Obviously Mrs. Hudson had finally had her way with the place. Watson smirked as he imagined how Holmes would react to such a farce. But the image was soon replaced by one of the detective lying in his prison cell. Shaking his head, Watson quickly spotted his cane leaning against Holmes' desk. Using one of the chairs, he limped across the room and took it in his hand, grateful to have it back. After gripping it tightly for a moment, his gaze settled on the desk itself. The top left hand draw had always been locked, it was where Holmes used to keep his cheque book. Leaning heavily on his cane, he took a deep breath and hooked his fingers under the drawer's handle and pulled. It slid open easily to reveal a completely empty space, save for a small envelope lying in the bottom, written upon in a deep blue ink. He lifted it out carefully, suddenly regretting what he was doing. He quickly pocketed it and went across to the bookshelf to find the correct book.

"Dr. Watson," Mrs. Hudson's footsteps could be heard ascending the stairs.

Watson glanced at the doorway as he ran his finger along one of the shelves, knowing that even if Mrs. Hudson saw him removing an envelope she wouldn't question it.

"Dr. Watson," she repeated as she paused in the doorway.

Watson stayed focused on the spines of the books as he replied, "Yes, Mrs. Hudson."

She approached holding something out, "This came for Mr. Holmes this morning, I thought perhaps you could give it to him if you were to see him again."

Watson glanced up to see her holding a folded piece of paper, wax sealed, "I don't know if I will be seeing him again, Mrs. Hudson."

Sad look passed over her face, "Perhaps, but you are more likely to see him than I. Besides, I'm not sure how long you will be able to stand not checking up on him."

Watson conceded and took the paper and shoved it into the pocket alongside the first letter, "Thank you, I will let him know you have kept his rooms to his liking," Watson smirked, still searching for the book.

She glanced around the room for a moment, "I couldn't bear to leave it in the state it was. The sheer amount of unmentionably disgusting things I found in here was astounding."

Watson chuckled as he pulled a book from the shelf and tucked it under his arm without bothering to check the letter was within it.

Mrs. Hudson was silent for a moment before fixing Watson with an odd look, "Can I ask you something?"

Watson frowned and nodded, "Of course."

"Do you believe Holmes is guilty of what he has been accused of?"

Watson blinked, the question catching him off guard, "I don't know. I'm not sure whether I believe the accusations or not."

She sighed, "Can I confide in you?"

The doctor nodded.

"I hate myself for thinking this but I truly believe he has committed the crimes. Some of the things I found in here are evidence very much against him," she hesitated a moment, "But now I don't what to do. I'm not sure I can ignore all of the things I found here. But if I go to the police, there's no telling what will happen to Mr. Holmes," her voice trailed off and she dapped the corners of her eyes.

Watson was dumbstruck by the landlady's sudden emotion, "What did you do with the evidence?"

She looked at him, surprised, "It's in a box downstairs. Why do you ask?"

"Well, this is no burden for you to bear, Mrs. Hudson," he smiled and limped closer, "We both care for Holmes but I feel I'm the one who is more responsible for him as it were. If you wish it, I could take the box off your hands, that way you don't have to think about it anymore."

She shook her head, "No, doctor, I couldn't do that to you. I shall endure."

Watson smiled reassuringly, "Mrs. Hudson, you need not endure. I can see how much this is troubling you, allow me to do this for you. Think of it as a payment for all this things you've done for me over the years."

She took a deep breath, "Thank you, doctor, I shall go and fetch it," with that she hurried away downstairs.

After she had gone, Watson rubbed the side of his face with his hand. This was just one more thing that was going to drag him further from the path he had decided he was going to walk. Damn Holmes.

Mrs. Hudson was already waiting at the bottom of the stairs, holding a small wooden chest in her hands which she held out to Watson once he reached her. Watson took it with a weak smile.

"May I ask what you will do with it?" she asked quietly.

"Don't worry yourself, Mrs. Hudson," he replied, "I'll take care of it. Thank you for letting me know about this though."

She smiled, "Thank you for taking it off my hands."

"It is no problem," he reached for the door handle, "Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson, I shall return soon no doubt."

"Yes, please do."

With that he left the building, carrying a boxful of evidence to condemn Holmes beyond all shadow of a doubt in one hand, and plans to free him from all blame in the other. It seemed he was carrying Holmes' future, literally.

olmeHo


	10. Chapter 10

**Hey guys...Please don't hate me...this chapter is a poor, poor offering but it will get better I promise! Once I've gotten through this patch it will get better...I hope...eheh...Review please? (just please don't kill me...) xXxXxXx**

The morning sun gleamed through the window of Watson's study, rousing him gently from the unsettled nap he had fallen into. He rolled a little in his seat before blinking awake and pushing himself upright. With sluggish movements, he lifted his open pocket watch to his face and groaned at the time. Four hours sleep. It seemed sleep was not a luxury he was going to enjoy for a long time. He sighed and laid the watch down on the desk once more, his eyes drifting to what else lay there. The two addressed letters were sat in their own small pile beside the box of evidence and the sealed paper delivered to Holmes. Neither of which he could bring himself to open. He'd brought them home from Baker street, placed them on his desk and spent the rest of the day tearing his hair out trying to decide what he was supposed to do. Mary had briefly asked how the meeting with Holmes had gone, but the doctor's rushed and short response of 'fine' was enough to ward her off asking anything more. She hadn't even dared to ask what it was Watson was bringing into their house.

He sighed to himself, a sudden washing of guilt for his treatment of his wife hit him like a ton of bricks. After a quick run of his hand through his hair, he vowed that once he had decided what he was going to do with what was on his desk he would leave the matter of Holmes be. For good. After all it was probably best for both of them. At least now, Holmes wouldn't badger him for company all of the time.

Watson nodded at his forceful decision and sat forward, reaching for the addressed envelopes and lifting them into the light. He wished to help his friend more than anything. His feeble walls of pride had crumbled. The only thing stopping him now was a small niggling fear that Watson himself would be implicated. Surely Holmes would have measures in place for that? Wouldn't he?

Then again, Watson had assumed he had measures in place for if Scotland Yard got wind of him.

The letters dropped to the desk with a frustrated grunt and the doctor fell back against the plush of the chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose. And here he had thought moving out of Baker Street would have made things less complicated. After a second, he sat up, decidedly, determined to do something.

The box of evidence was comparatively small, going on how much Holmes had admitted to. It was irrelevant anyway. Evidence that Holmes was guilty was unnecessary, Scotland Yard had already decided on it anyway and Watson didn't want to make the situation any worse. That just left the two envelopes and the sealed paper. The sealed paper was had no return address, simply 'Sherlock Holmes' written across it. The doctors had none of Holmes' deductive skills, but it didn't take a genius for him to work out that these were no doubt communications with his underworld contacts. The envelopes were both going to different places, one was abroad, the other was in London, in one of poorer districts close to the Thames. A part of him had considered going there himself, to find Holmes contact. But then he remembered his close encounter last time he met some of the detective's criminal friends. Without Holmes as protection he would be worse of, the chances were that he would end up dead or in the very least, Holmes would.

Watson shook his head. No, Holmes had told him what to do to save him. His plans had always worked before. Why would this be any different?

With that he pushed the envelopes to one side and focused his attention on the sealed paper. Clearly this person did not know what had happened to Holmes. Else they would not have sent him a message, not to his home address. Watson picked it from the desk and held it gently in his fingers, studying the arching writing in a vain attempt at recognition. None came. He sighed and flipped it over so that the plain wax seal was facing upwards. He ran his fingers over it for a second, telling himself that he was trying to work out its origin. The reality was that he was trying to put off opening it for as long as possible. Part of him wanted to keep himself separate from all of this. Keep himself and Mary safe from anything that might happen because of this.

He swallowed. His friend needed him.

He nodded to himself and slipped his thumb underneath the wax seal, cracking it. He licked his dry lips nervously as he unfolded the paper and scanned his eyes over the writing within.

_Good day, Dr. Watson. We've never met, but I assure you, I know enough about you. Mr Holmes used some of my contacts you for a number of days a while back. The reasons are not mine to give but since then I have made sure to keep at least a few eyes on you. A close friend of such a man is not invaluable to know of. It has come to fruition now it seems. Congratulations on your wedding by the way. _

_Fate of the Great Sherlock Holmes is a tragedy. It is a shame that such a brilliant mind is rotting away Her Majesty's finest prison. You are not the only one who appreciates him, no matter how much he seems to believe otherwise. We cannot let him wilt and die, as it will be inevitable. We both know that. It seems you and I share a goal, my friend. You are not alone in your wish to alleviate your friend from his torment. _

_He has no doubt already given you instructions to help him, however, I know the criminal underworld a lot better than Mr. Holmes no matter how smart he thinks he is. They will not help him. It is common sense. He has made himself quite the criminal mastermind recently, a fast way to make plenty of powerful enemies. If one's enemy is in danger, the only reason someone like yourself would rescue them is through honour or morals. The men your friend will be relying on have neither. _

_We should meet. Tomorrow noon. _

The letter wasn't signed.

All that was there was the name of a London restaurant that Watson and Holmes had often frequented. Watson slumped back into his chair, letting his head hang over the back of it as he exhaled. Was it never simple? What the message was saying made sense. Holmes must have thought of that. It was a simple thing. Of course he had.

Though this wouldn't have been the first time the great detective had under-estimated how well thought through his plans were. His current situation was evidence enough of that.

The doctor took a deep breath. Why should he trust this person? Why were they trust-worthy when all others weren't? Why were they watching them in the first place? It didn't even bother him that they had been watched this whole time. It was only a small extra on the dangerous and twisted track that Holmes had forced him on. He lifted his head to look at the letters on his desk, his mind torn in conflict. Stifling a yawn, he lifted his pocket watch. Considering the note had been delivered the previous morning, noon was only a couple of hours away.

Watson exhaled in frustration and rubbed his hands over his face. Whatever he was going to do, he needed to decide quickly. When it came down to it, he had two choices, one was to deliver the letters and sit in his study and hope or to meet with this person and at least talk through what would happen. The doctor swallowed, lifting the letters in one hand and staring at them with a creased brow.

"Oh good God Holmes," he muttered to himself, standing to his feet and plucking his coat from the back of the chair, "What the hell have you gotten me into?" he swung the coat around his shoulders and headed for the door, abandoning everything on his desk.


End file.
